


The Messenger

by Huggle



Series: Paid In Full [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, BAMF Castiel, Coercion, Home Invasion, Hurt Castiel, M/M, Manhandling, Multi, Protective Bobby Singer, Rape, Restraints, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 22:26:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7010875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huggle/pseuds/Huggle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby expects demons to kick his door in, or vampires to bust through his window.</p><p>He doesn't expect it to be humans or for them to have an agenda that could break them, but Castiel most of all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Messenger

**Author's Note:**

> Part two of the Paid in Full series, and sequel to the story of the same name.
> 
> Things get dark here, dear readers. I'm so sorry, Cas. Again, written as a one shot, so if you spot any errors, please let me know, thanks.

Some mornings, Bobby wakes up and the whole damn world is just too much effort. 

He lies in bed, and he thinks actually, it wouldn’t be such a terrible thing if it was all over. He doesn’t even really mind how, so long as it was quick. Death he doesn’t fear, not really – he’s seen there are a lot of worse things that can happen to a person. 

A lot of them have happened to him.

But he’d rather not suffer, and he’d rather nobody else did either.

Then, like always, his mind drifts to those two boys. Because if the end does come, it’ll take them with it. Of course, it won’t really be them any more – unless they agree to the grudge match of all time, Armageddon’s stalled – because Bobby’s done his reading.

And what limited gaps there were, that frigging angel filled in for him.

No matter how strong the person, nobody survives possession by an archangel the magnitude of Lucifer, or Michael, unscathed. It’d be like somebody scouring out your brain, your soul, with steel wool. All that’d be left was a suit, maybe some vestige of soul or spirit or whatever makes a person themselves but that’d be it.

And that’s presuming that one of those bastards didn’t actually manage to off the other, that they didn’t end up taking each other out and leaving his sons – yes, dammit, his boys – dead in the dirt.

So as far as he’s concerned the Apocalypse is cancelled. And it should be because there’s a few billion people who’re running out of time and don’t even know it. Hell, it is. 

But mainly it’s because he’ll find a way to kill every single demon and angel in existence before he lets any of them lay a finger to those fool kids. They’re his. They have been, he reckons now, ever since that first night that John Winchester showed up at the yard, dragging the two of them in behind him.

A sorrier, scrawnier sight Bobby’d never seen in anything that didn’t have fur and four legs. 

He won’t deny he’d been hardened against pretty much anything for a while by then – his only real friend was Rufus and Bobby spent most of his time fighting the urge not to knock the annoying bastard on his ass for one thing or another. Being around people was something he’d been better at, less edgier about.

But it had only meant to be a one off; a night, some help with research into a banshee that was killing folks involved with a mining company a state over, and then he’d likely never see the Winchester clan again.

He chuckles a little at where they are now, sobers at the thought that disaster brought them together but there were some damn good times along the way, and some fucking crappy ones too, and doesn’t realise he’s crying until the first tear tickles its way down his cheek, plops onto his pillow.

All those boys have in the world now, really, is him. Well, there’s the wingless wonder but Bobby just has a hard time trusting the little shit. Dean pretty much thinks he walks on water, Sam’s a little less ardent about it but Bobby can see they’ve bonded with the angel.  
He guesses fighting together, having someone die for you, can do that. He’s just not ready to crumple up his distrust of something that isn’t human and toss it out a window.

Either way, he’s done as much brooding for one day as he’s comfortable with and he hasn’t even got out of bed yet. That takes some effort, but he’s by himself in the house now – the boys won’t be back until the next evening, and the angel who knows when – but he tells himself he’ll put a little something more than milk in his coffee when he finally gets downstairs.

When the hell he had to start bribing himself to get his ass in gear, he doesn’t know, but it’s a sorry development and that’s the damn truth.

~~

It’s a little after ten, been dark for maybe an hour or more, when Bobby’s door crashes inward.

He’d been in the den, eyes nipping after hours of scanning some old Lithuanian text on devils, when he hears it. Dumping the book, he snatches up the shotgun he keeps strapped to the side of his chair and waits.

He stays behind his desk – it’s good cover if he needs it to be, and if something’s burst in here looking for him, he’d rather this is where it finds him.

He still has the blue light activated devil trap on the floor, but there’s one permanently etched into the porch as well, so whatever just came through his door had to have crossed it.

So probably not a demon but there’s not a room in the house that doesn’t have one kind of warding or another, so he’ll see what it is by how far it gets.

It’s just as well he still has sharp reflexes because that’s the only thing that saves the angel – who, Bobby remembers, with a chill at the possible consequences of shooting him, isn’t really an angel anymore – from getting whacked with a mixture of buckshot and rocksalt as he bursts into view.

“What the hell,” Bobby demands. “You don’t know how to knock?” A few millions year old, allegedly smart, you’d think a celestial being could figure out how to make a fist and rap it on the door a couple of times.

“You’re alright,” Castiel says. He seems almost…put out by that.

Bobby gives him a glare but as usual it just slides off. The angel’s fought demons and monsters on a regular basis, and led an army into hell. He’s also had to put up with Dean Winchester’s brand of shit and sass for more than a year, so probably anything Bobby can offer in that department isn’t even going to be noticeable.

“Well, I’m damn sorry to disappoint,” he snaps. “You were hoping I’d rolled down a hill or something?”

Castiel crosses the room with a pissed off look, but Bobby lets him – he’s not cowed by bristled feathers – and takes out the cell phone Sam got him. 

“You sent me a text,” he says. “Telling me you needed help and to come back immediately.”

Bobby takes the phone; he doesn’t think Castiel is lying, but he wants to see.

Sure enough, there’s a message from his number, saying exactly that. 

He tosses the phone back to the angel. “Well I sure as hell didn’t send it. Why didn’t you call me first before turning back?”

“I tried,” Castiel says. “No one answered.”

Now that Bobby thinks about it, the phones have been pretty quiet today. He’s not too surprised. Word’s spread about Sam, and some hunters know those boys are family to him. And hunters talk.

As far as Bobby’s concerned, the ones that want to judge can fuck off, and get somebody else to look up lore or pretend to be senior agent in charge at wherever. 

But he’s had no reason to call anybody either.

“C’mere,” he tells the angel, and rolls over to the desk with the phone bank. He tries three of them at random. Each one’s dead.

Then he tries his cell and finds there’s no signal. 

He takes back Castiel’s, and it’s the same.

For a moment, Bobby pulls it all together. Cell phones are easy to clone. Just a little proximity and it’s done. But he hasn’t left the damn house in nearly two weeks. And he doubts the nearest cell tower just fell over in nice timing for Castiel to walk back in the door.

“We’ve got trouble,” he warns the angel.

Castiel’s blade slips down into his hand.

That’s when the lights go out.

~~

Bobby’s got an emergency generator. He keeps it full and he keeps it serviced and running.

So it’s a big disappointment but maybe not a surprise when it doesn’t kick in.

“Great,” Bobby mutters. “I got every damn ward and sigil known to man in this place and we get home invaded.” Because demons or vampires – they don’t bother with fake messages or power cuts.

But why did they want Castiel here before they slammed the trap shut – and it is a trap, Bobby knows that now.

What the hell has the damn angel brought down on them?

“You piss anybody off lately?” he demands, voice low. He’s sure he can hear somebody moving around downstairs.  
“All of Heaven and Hell,” Castiel says. 

Bobby glares at him in the dark, but he can never tell if the angel’s being literal again or just sassing him.

Either way, bigger fish.

Castiel starts towards the stairs that lead into the cellar, to the workshop and the panic room, so he clearly heard their uninvited guest or guests down there as well.

“Watch yourself,” Bobby hisses.

Castiel gives no notion he’s even heard. He’s catlike quiet, sure as he disappears into the dark.

Bobby stares down at the chair, at his legs, and not for the first time hates the whole fucking situation and himself along with it. 

That’s when he hears the stairs from the upper floor creaking as someone tries and fails to come sneaking down them.

Bobby turns the chair as quietly as he can, and rolls it over to where he’s got a good angle on the doorway that leads through to the living room. He hoists the shotgun, and he waits.

Downstairs, something crashes, and he jumps a little at the sudden noise. There’s shouts and yells, and somebody screams sharply.

It isn’t Castiel. He figures right now whoever’s down there with the ex-soldier of Heaven is wishing they weren’t.

There’s some sour satisfaction to be had from that, right up until someone reaches around from behind him and presses a blade against his throat.

“Robert Singer,” a voice says into his ear. There’s a whole of smugness in the tone that Bobby wants to tear right out of it. “I think I’d like you to rein in your boy, now.”

~~

Bobby’s got to admit – it was like being raided by a tactical unit. He gets cuffed to the chair and rolled to the top of the stairs leading down.

“Call to him,” the guy behind him demands. He’s not alone there now, either. Another two of the bastards came out of nowhere, and they’re armed and Bobby knows at that point they’re probably shit out of luck.

“Not a chance in hell,” he says, and holds his breath as the knife against his throat digs in a little deeper. Blood wells up and drips from the blade.

“Very well. Scream to him instead.”

He grabs the middle finger on Bobby’s right hand and wrenches it back hard.

Bobby tries to hold on to it, he does, but the pain’s sudden and it explodes up his arm. Part of him knows his finger’s not broken. Not yet. 

And then it is, the increasing pressure too damn much and he does scream. Short, swallowed back down as fast as he could, but it’s enough.

Everything goes very quiet below.

“I know I have your attention now,” the knife guy says. “How many of you are still standing down there?”

A voice he doesn’t know answers – three of them. Bobby tries to focus on how many of them there were to start with as an alternative to losing himself in the fire burning in his hand.

“Well, then. Castiel, isn’t it? You’ll hand any weapons to my men and then surrender yourself. Unless you wish to hear Mr. Singer screaming again.”

Bobby starts to yell out, but a hand clamps itself over his mouth, and knife guy grabs his finger again, pulls back just enough to start the pain ratcheting up.

Bobby feels his stomach twist and roil. He wonders if he’ll puke over the guy’s hand and wonders if it’ll be worth the satisfaction.

A moment later that same voice calls up that they have him. 

Knife guy moves his hand, and leans in. He settles his hands on Bobby’s shoulders, and squeezes.

“So. I guess you’re wondering what we want.”

“Whatever it is, you’re not going to get it.”

Knife guy comes around in front of him, pushes back his sleeve to reveal a glow in the dark watch face. Nods, satisfied.

“As of now, Mr. Singer, we have everything we want.” He glances at the men standing behind Bobby. “It’s time. Let’s get started.”

~~

They switch the power on a couple of minutes later and then lift Bobby’s wheelchair, him in it, and carry him downstairs. Hefting him over the chairlift took some effort, but they managed it, knife guy helping, and then they dumped him at the bottom and wheeled him down towards the panic room.

They had to hoist him over the knee knocker to get him in, but as soon as they set him down Bobby takes in as much as he can.

Castiel’s in the corner, two meaty guys holding on to his upper arms and wrists. He’s bleeding from a cut above his right eye – nothing major – and there’s a bruise starting to show along his jaw.

Bobby’s doesn’t miss the two bodies tucked away behind him.

He doesn’t miss the webcam either, on top of the filing cabinet he’d had the boys move down here when he started to struggle for room upstairs.

So somebody somewhere else is going to be getting a show.

What kind, Bobby doesn’t know, and he feels sick at that.

“What the hell’s this about?”

Knife guy’s standing in front of Castiel, eyeing him with a cold curiosity. He taps his knife against Castiel’s jaw, maybe trying to provoke a reaction he doesn’t get.

Or at least thinks he doesn’t. But Bobby’s gotten a little better at reading Castiel, since as time passed he spent more of it around Dean and Sam, and him by default.

Castiel’s worried. Not scared, not yet, not really. But he’s not far off, and Bobby can relate.

“So you gonna tell us or kill us with the suspense?” he snaps, the sudden urge to have the guy’s attention back on him instinctual, something he doesn’t understand and can’t fight.

“It wouldn’t help any,” knife guy says. “Besides, when the other two get back here I’m sure they can tell you what this was all about. Put him on the bed and strap him down. Oh, by the way, Mr.Singer. I want to thank you for unintentionally providing the equipment that’s going to make this so much easier. For us, anyway.”

The two guys holding Castiel heave him forward. He doesn’t do what Bobby expects; instead of throwing his weight back, Castiel feints left, and tangles his foot inbetween the legs of the guy on the right as he shifts in that direction to compensate.

It almost works, but they’ve got the height and weight advantage on Castiel. In that vessel he’s maybe five eleven? Six foot? Maybe a hundred and seventy pounds or so. 

The guys holding him are like linebackers and without a conduit direct to cloud land, Castiel’s punching above his weight.

It doesn’t stop him fighting though. And he’s being enough of a pain in the ass that knife guy suddenly loses patience.

The blade is back at Bobby’s throat, biting in again.

“Castiel, if you struggle anymore, I’m going to slit his throat. My employer will be disappointed in me – his instructions were the only person to get hurt over this was you. But he understands the concept of collateral damage. So stop fighting us. Now!”

That last word was yelled, and Bobby gets a first look under knife guy’s veneer of calm. His face has turned red without warning, and his eyes are wide and hungry.

He’s nearly drooling at the thought of what gets to come next, and he’s eager for both of them to be a part of it.

“You stop and I’ll kick your ass!” Bobby screamed at Cas.  
There’s one long drawn out moment of nothing, really, just Castiel studying knife guy and coming to the same conclusion as Bobby, no doubt.

He straightens up, and surrenders. Lets them walk him to the bed.

They push him down onto it. Stretch him out, and buckle the restraints around his wrists and ankles.

Castiel tugs, probably on instinct, but Bobby’s knows it’s pointless. He’s virtually human now, and Sam at his strongest and hyped on demon blood couldn’t bust loose.

Knife guy seems almost disappointed as he shifts the blade from Bobby’s throat. He wipes it off on Bobby’s sleeve, and slips it back into a sheath at his waist.

“Well, let’s get started, then, shall we?”

~~

A lot of bad things have happened in this panic room. Bobby never built it to be a damn nursery, so he wasn’t expecting it to be a source of happy memories. But this, even after Sam…this is probably the thing that will have him walling the place up and pretending it never existed to begin with.

He didn’t know what they were going to do, at first. He figures rough the angel up. Maybe it’ll go a little further than that. Ok, probably it will – this is a lot of effort to go to for just some bruises.

Bobby still wonders about the camera. Who’s the bastard watching, getting a hard on from the Hostel director’s cut? And what the hell does it have to do with Dean and Sam? Why would they know, when he doesn’t?

But none of those questions help them right now. Still, Bobby’s thinks whatever they do, Castiel can handle it. Tough son of a bitch carved his own damn chest with the biggest banishing sigil Bobby’s ever seen. Bled himself out almost for those two, so they could go try and rescue Adam.

Damn shame it didn’t work, but that was the gutsiest thing he’s ever seen from anybody. Stupid, but gutsy all the same.

He keeps thinking that Cas can handle this until they upgrade from slapping him around to cutting off his clothes.

Then Bobby knows which way this is heading, and that’s when he starts trying to negotiate. Throws a couple of threats in, and they’re not empty. 

None of them help.

The guy Castiel tried to trip is up first, and he pounds away – fast but shallow. Castiel’s fingers are gripping the leather cuffs, but other than that he looks like he’s locked himself away somewhere.

Bobby hopes he stays there until this is done. 

Then they switch up and the next guy – he fucks into the angel like he’s digging for something and his dick’s the shovel.

That gets a reaction out of Castiel, drags him back from wherever he was taking cover, and the yelp of pain stirs Bobby in some way he can’t fathom.

“You fuckers!” he screams, every inch of control he thought he had suddenly lost. He doesn’t remember later anything he says or does, the threats or promises or bribes. Not a single one has any effect, makes no different at all.

In the end all he can do is watch, and listen to the crack as one of the linebackers puts a meaty hand just on the lowest of Castiel’s ribs, and pushes down with all his weight.

The sound it wrenches out of Castiel is almost worse than the noise of the rib breaking, and Bobby has to swallow back the nausea that churns up into his throat.

But that, and what they’ve done so far is as bad as it gets. It’s bad enough, but Bobby knows they could do worse.

They could kill him.

Knife guy, for all that he’s clearly a complete psycho, never touches Cas himself. He watches though, and Bobby can see how much it turns him on, the bastard. Then his cell chirps and his face darkens.

“Enough,” he says, and it stops. Just like that.

There were three of them working Castiel over at that point, and when they step back Bobby’s breath catches in his throat.

Maybe they have killed him.

He’s bloody and bruised. His wrists and ankles are torn around the cuffs. There’s….

Bobby can’t bring himself to acknowledge what Castiel is covered in, and whatever the fuck happened to his Grace after he carved that sigil in his own flesh he’s still an angel. 

One of them disconnects the camera, stows it away in a holdall. Another one comes over, and undoes one of Bobby’s wrists. Just one.

“You fuckers,” Bobby says. His voice is raw, he’s drained. He can’t dredge up anything right now to let him throw the hate at them they deserve. “How the hell can I help him cuffed to the damn chair?”

Knife guy crouches down next to Castiel. Now for the first time since Castiel was restrained, he touches. He pets Castiel’s cheek almost sweetly, gently.

“How the hell can you help him anyway, you fucking cripple?”

He doesn’t say anything else, just stands and walks past Bobby like he’s nothing, certainly no threat.

He’s right.

 

~~

 

It takes him a couple of minutes to pull himself together, to force himself to think.

First order of business is to get free of the other cuff. Until he does, he can’t move the chair.

One of the first things he taught Dean was how to pick a lock properly, and the next thing was always to have a set of picks on him, and a hidden back up pick for emergencies. 

He’s glad they didn’t search him, but then he’s a fucking cripple, so…

He’s also shaking so hard that it takes way longer than it should to get the cuff undone, but finally it clicks open. He undoes the other side, doesn’t want the chain getting caught in his wheel, and then throws it aside like its poison.

Heart thumping like mad in his chest, he rolls over to the bed. Castiel hasn’t moved. Bobby can’t even tell if he’s breathing. He almost doesn’t dare to touch him, but he has to know. Gingerly, he presses his fingers against Castiel’s neck and touches the inside of his wrist with his other hand.

Castiel’s pulse is strong, so good. Bobby watches his chest rise and fall evenly, but doesn’t miss the darkened area over the broken rib. 

There’s a lot he doesn’t miss, and he knows this isn’t something he can deal with, not on his own.


End file.
